


Say Yes to the Dress

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Humor, Men in Dresses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-26 19:18:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6252235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes in order to complete their missions, the Musketeers are required to make a fashion statement by stepping into a woman's shoes. Find out which of the Musketeers cuts the finest figure and why they are all dressed up with somewhere to go. A collaboration with AZGirl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Green

**Author's Note:**

> This mini-series of stories is a collaboration with AZGirl. In chapter 5 of my recent story, Bound and Determined, I mentioned Aramis wearing a "green dress…[that] brought out the gold flecks in his eyes." In her review of that chapter, AZGirl commented that it was a great prompt for a story. Our conversations quickly turned from discussing the prompt to both of us agreeing to tackle two of the Musketeers' experiences that required them to don a dress. The result is a total of four, (mostly), separate short stories.
> 
> Each chapter tells the story of one of the guys having to wear a dress and is named after the color of the garment they had to wear. To get the full effect, I recommend you read the chapters in the following order: Green, Blue*, Red, and Black*. (*See: Say Yes to the Dress II written by AZGirl.)
> 
> This first chapter, "Green", is pre-series, so no d'Artagnan. Hope you enjoy!

It was true – the color was stunning and even the cut was flattering. They’d foregone the corset, their double unwilling to endure the pain of having his ribs mercilessly squeezed into a shape that would constrict his breathing and his movements - besides, he lacked a bosom to enhance, and no amount of artful compression would change that fact. Thankfully, he had a naturally slender waist, which was enhanced by the bodice that joined at his waist in a delicate “v”. At his throat sat a lacy collar, its pearl-shaped buttons clasped up to his chin, hiding a very obvious Adam’s apple. From his waist streamed yards and yards of soft, flowing fabric, until it pooled on the ground around his feet. From top to bottom, he was wrapped in the finest of green silk, the bodice embroidered with gold thread, the dark emerald hue contrasting nicely with the white lace at his neck.

 

The sound of someone clearing their throat caught his attention, and Aramis looked up from where he was admiring his countenance at the edge of the lake, his fingers playing idly with the cuff of one sleeve as he tugged it into place. “If you’re quite ready?” Athos dryly inquired, one eyebrow rising as he fought to keep the humour from his face.

 

Aramis knew he should be more embarrassed than he currently was, but even he couldn’t argue that he was the most obvious choice. Athos, while similar in build, still carried himself like a nobleman, the effect of years of careful tutelage as he was prepared to step into his father’s shoes. No amount of coaching could remove the very masculine sense of authority that imbued his every action. The thought of Porthos in a dress had the marksman snickering quietly to himself. Even he, with his fertile imagination, could never conceive of a time when the large, broad-shouldered Musketeer could pass for a woman. Besides, Madame Chevreaux possessed a lithe frame and no amount of alteration could make her clothes fit Porthos.

 

He'd initially been aghast at the idea of donning a woman’s frock when his friends had pointedly looked in his direction, but it had taken remarkably little to convince him of the soundness of the suggestion. Athos had reasonably pointed out that he would need to remain alongside the carriage in order to pass through the Comte Tavernier’s lands, since he was the only one known to the nobleman and needed to be recognizable while they crossed the man’s property. Porthos would need to drive the carriage, and his strength would be wasted ensconced within the conveyance when he could be protecting its contents instead.

 

Aramis had looked a little desperate then, preparing to argue that another of their group would be a better choice, until Athos reminded him of the special place the marksman seemed to hold in the widow’s heart. It was true that they’d hit it off immediately, Aramis’ charms coming to the fore whenever in the presence of a beautiful woman, and Madame Chevreaux most certainly qualified. With skin like the smoothest alabaster, she seemed almost angelic, and her somewhat shy nature only enhanced her appeal.

 

When the Musketeers had gotten word of the threat against her life, deciding midway through their journey that an alternate plan was required, she had immediately turned her large brown eyes to Aramis, beseeching him to protect her. The marksman had reassured her, clasping her delicate hands in his own as he held her gaze. All would be well, he’d said, since no one could outwit the King’s Musketeers. No one, it seemed, other than one of their own, as Athos had neatly manipulated him into the position of donning a dress. Still, the marksman and expected the widow to speak against the idea, but it seemed to appeal to her instead, and she’d pulled from her trunk the deep green dress, which she stated would bring out the gold flecks in Aramis’ eyes. With those words, the last of his resistance had crumbled.

 

With a final tug at the cuff of his sleeve, Aramis adopted a neutral expression before turning to face his friends. He noted Athos’ typically calm façade, underneath which he could sense rather than actually see the humour that lit up the older man’s eyes at the sight of Aramis’ outfit. Porthos grinned openly and Aramis inwardly cringed, already anticipating the many hours of torment he would endure for his part in their current deception. Only Madame Chevreaux seemed oddly at peace with the sight, her eyes shining brightly at the image of her protector in one of her favorite frocks.

 

“Oh, Aramis, it fits you even better than I’d imagined,” the petite woman gushed, blushing moments later as she realized the implication of her words.

 

Ever the gentleman, Aramis smiled back, “Madame, you are too kind. Clearly it is only your wise choice that has made my appearance even mildly acceptable.”

 

The widow’s cheeks reddened once more and she dipped her head, unable to meet the charming marksman’s gaze. Athos appeared at her side, as he interrupted the exchange, “Madame, your carriage awaits.” The older man indicated the somewhat less ostentatious vehicle which they’d manage to secure, and the small group of Musketeers who surrounded it, waiting for their charge to alight so they could continue their journey, albeit by a slightly different route. Wordlessly, Aramis pressed his lips to the widow’s hand, leaving her with a last charming smile before Athos took her arm, moving her away from Aramis and helping her alight, firmly closing the door behind her. He took a moment to share some final instructions with the others before returning to where his two friends waited, the carriage behind him carrying the widow away.

 

“Shall we?” Athos asked, looking pointedly at Aramis who was still standing outside.

 

Seeing the older man’s look, Porthos stepped forward and gallantly offered his arm, causing Aramis to splutter indignantly. Ignoring his friend’s actions, he picked up his skirt and made his way to the carriage, intentionally waiting at its entrance until Athos rolled his eyes and indicated to Porthos that he should open the door. The large man did so with a sarcastically stated, “Please, Madame, allow me.”

 

Aramis resisted the retort that hung on his lips as he struggled to climb into the carriage in the many extra pounds of fabric that now covered his frame. Finally managing to slip inside, he fell gracelessly to the seat, arranging his billowing skirt around him. As Porthos closed the door after him, the marksman muttered to himself, “I hope these idiots attack quickly so I can get back into the comfort of my leathers.” Seconds later, he felt the large vehicle sway as Porthos climbed into the driver’s seat and, with a jerk, they were off. Aramis clutched at the pistols that rested on the seat beside him, shaking his head in wonder at how he’d ever been convinced to put on a dress. 

* * *

When the bandits targeting Madame Chevreaux finally attacked, Aramis reflected that the incident was the only thing that had gone right for him that afternoon. After spending several hours in the widow’s clothes, he’d discovered that while the many layers of fabric might have been pleasing to the eye, the comfort of the one wearing said fabric was not taken into consideration. In addition to the weight, the tight bodice pinched uncomfortably and he became incredibly hot in the airless carriage, the slight breeze outside virtually blocked from entering the enclosed space. He’d attempted to fan himself with his hat until he’d been rebuked by Athos, who’d pointed out that a lady was unlikely to be using a man’s chapeau with which to cool herself. Grudgingly, Aramis had complied and left the hat sitting on the opposite seat, casting it the occasional longing look as sweat pooled and then trickled down his back, making the fabric damp and itchy.

 

He allowed another sigh of misery to escape, deciding that neither of his friends cared about his discomfort. It was as he wallowed that he heard the first cry of warning from Porthos, the carriage jerking forward once more as the horses were pushed to move faster. Hastily, Aramis wrapped the scarf the widow had provided around his head and face, obscuring his features so their deception would not be revealed. His hands then returned to his pistols, the solid feel of their wooden butts reassuring as he waited impatiently to see what would happen.

 

Soon, he heard the first shots and he cursed himself when the sound made him cringe, his body naturally reacting to the danger even though he was likely the safest of all of them until the carriage was forced to stop. His right hand shifted, his finger slipping against the trigger as he prepared himself to fight. He could hear a cry from Porthos, but it sounded more like anger than hurt, and Aramis gnashed his teeth together at his inability to help.

 

Leaning forward, he risked a look outside and noted the presence of a half-dozen men who’d closed rapidly, their group quickly surrounding the swift-moving vehicle. As he watched, he saw one of the riders point their weapon in Porthos’ direction and his own hand came up as he prepared to retaliate. Aiming carefully, he loosed a shot, withdrawing immediately afterwards to ensure his participation in the battle would remain unnoticed. He smiled at the resulting sound of pain as the bandit fell from his horse when he was struck.

 

Another minute passed, marked by several more pistol shots and then they began to slow. Aramis risked another look outside and spotted one rider pacing at the carriage’s side. He could see no sign of Athos and the man’s absence made a spike of fear erupt in his chest. A large rut in the road they traversed threw him sideways, and more profanity passed his lips as he went down hard, his ribs striking the edge of one seat while his loaded pistol flew from his hand. It took him several seconds to gather himself up, the multiple layers of fine cloth tangling beneath his feet as he tried to rise.

 

Abruptly, they came to a stop, and Aramis just managed to catch himself from a repeat performance, this time throwing a hand out to brace himself against the opposite seat rather than striking it bodily. Shakily, he stood, prepared to give Porthos a piece of his mind for the ludicrous ride he’d had to endure, when he caught sight of a shadow at the door. Without thought, he threw himself at the flimsy covering, his momentum bringing him through the doorway and into the body of the surprised bandit.

 

Aramis had no hope of stopping his forward movement and the bandit he struck fell backwards off the small step, the two men tumbling to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. Luckily, the marksman landed on top, however the man beneath him was quick to recover and was reaching for Aramis’ arms before he had a chance to move. He jerked wildly as he struggled to get his legs untangled enough to stand but, once more, he was ensnared by the long skirt that had wrapped itself around his legs. The bandit still tried to capture the marksman’s arms, and Aramis finally pulled one free with a grunt of effort, pulling it back and letting fly with a right hook that had his attacker’s eyes rolling up in his head.

 

With both hands finally free, Aramis flung his entire body sideways, scrambling across the hard-packed dirt for several feet until he rolled to sit on his backside. His chest was heaving with exertion and his hair stuck at his temples as he tugged at the scarf that still covered his head. Tossing the fine piece of cloth aside, he sat slumped, hands on the ground to brace himself, while his legs were flung out in front of him, only the tips of his boots showing from underneath the green dress.

 

The quiet sound of snickering reached his ears and had him looking up to see Porthos and Athos standing several feet away, watching him with unabashed amusement in their faces. A glance away and at their surroundings showed no one else around, and he concluded that they’d successfully handled their attackers, ending with Aramis’ ungainly exit and subsequent fight with the last man.

 

Porthos’ mirth grew and he allowed a large guffaw from his chest, and Aramis could see tears now flowing down his face from the force of his laughter. Summoning his last shreds of dignity as he glared at his friends from underneath his sweaty and snarled hair, he hissed out, pausing between each word to emphasize his statement, “No one ever speaks of this.”

 

Aramis’ words only fueled his friends’ laughter and he lowered his head, shaking it sadly, as he pondered the teasing that awaited him in the coming days.


	2. Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That he’d need to don a dress for his half-formed plan to work hadn’t occurred to him when he’d bolted away from his friends.

Things had unfolded so quickly that he would later look back on them and wonder how he’d been swept up in the urgency, and found himself in his current situation. Several feet in front of him were men of varying ages, enjoying fine liquor along with heaping platefuls of food that contained all manner of delicacies, some of which he’d never seen, even in his time at the palace.

 

d’Artagnan fidgeted uncomfortably, shifting slightly to one side as the uncomfortably tight lacing that narrowed his waist constricted his ribs, making it challenging to draw a deep breath. The deep red of the gown he wore had had the intended effect, and every eye in the room was on him as he stood daintily on the raised dais that separated him from the wolfish stares of the men surrounding him. Forcing his hand to stay steady, he tugged carefully at the lace that covered his head and a portion of his face from view, the scarf apparently adding to his appeal if his audience’s reaction was anything to go by. A portion of his mind recognized the lasciviousness of the men, while the other part stayed rooted firmly in the present, preparing himself for what was to come next.

 

Carefully clearing his throat, he opened his mouth and allowed the first sweet notes of the Gascon song to pass through his lips. The small band of musicians seated to one side took that as their cue, and artfully accompanied him, the melody they produced simply acting to enhance the sound of his voice. It had been a surprising secret that Porthos had discovered by chance, when d’Artagnan had hummed and eventually broken into song one day as he washed their dishes at the side of a crystal blue lake. It was something he’d inherited from his mother, but given the memories associated with it, his singing was a talent he kept to himself and only indulged in when feeling completely safe and relaxed.

 

The nerves that now lit up at the intense stares of those around him made his voice momentarily warble before steadying again, the familiar words deposited to land lightly on the air around him which seemed to be charged with electricity. Even the multitude of servers had paused in their movements, their eyes riveted to the platform where d’Artagnan effortlessly seemed to glide from one lilting word to the next. When he’d finished, silence settled on the large room for several long seconds, and d’Artagnan’s palms grew uncomfortably sweaty as he waited to be discovered.

 

It began with a single, slow clapping that was enthusiastically taken up by everyone else in the room, until the thundering sound of applause blocked out all other sound. To one side, a woman beckoned, and d’Artagnan moved in her direction with a short dip of his head toward his adoring fans. As soon as he’d stepped down, the woman grasped his arm, a wide, warm smile on her face as she leaned closer, “You were wonderful.” d’Artagnan didn’t know how to respond and simply allowed himself to be led away, the two of them weaving swiftly through the throng of onlookers and to a set of back stairs which deposited them on the second floor of the grand house.

 

His escort opened the door and pushed him inside, retreating quickly with a last comment, “Set yourself down on the bed. I’ll send anyone who comes looking, up here to see you.” With that statement, the young woman disappeared, the door closing firmly behind her. d’Artagnan took a quick look around the sparsely furnished room, noting the large, opulent bed against one wall along with the table that held a basin and pitcher of water. There was little else and, with nowhere else to sit, the Gascon settled himself awkwardly on the edge of the bed, unconsciously arranging his skirts around him.

 

The home he’d surreptitiously entered belonged to an important nobleman, and although his parties were well-known among those of standing, it was also acknowledged that these events had more in common with a visit to a brothel than anything else. As such, the man’s guest list was carefully managed, and well-trained guards at every door ensured that no one else entered the premises. The staff working the event were similarly scrutinised, with all them having been there numerous times before, and no one new allowed to enter until they’d been thoroughly vetted.

 

Those facts had made it impossible for any of the Musketeers to enter, since the time required to procure an invitation would have prevented their attendance at the current event. The wait for the next one would have been too long, since the special evenings occurred only once every other month. Their absence this evening would have meant missing their opportunity to capture the Count of Mélito, one Rodrigo Ortega. The Spaniard was believed to be acting as a spy for his country while travelling through France under the guise of visiting nobleman. To publically arrest the man would be political folly, so the Musketeers had been tasked with the responsibility of quietly securing him and presenting him to the Cardinal for questioning.

 

With their options limited, the Musketeers had only had one avenue available to them – enter as one of the many women secured for the event, all of whom were first displayed by demonstrating a unique talent before being ushered upstairs where they could entertain any interested gentlemen. It was not something that had been agreed-upon in advance, since the realization that they’d be unable to slip in as either honored guest or servant was something they’d become aware of a mere hour beforehand. They’d spent that time watching the comings and goings at the estate, staring in frustration at the main gates as they admitted one carriage after another.

 

It was as d’Artagnan watched one of the ladies look out of the window of her carriage that the idea occurred to him. With a hurried call of “Wait for my word!”, he was gone, running after the vehicle and tucking himself underneath it, thus successfully crossing through the estate’s gates and into the courtyard beyond. His three companions had been flabbergasted, but fortunately Aramis had been positioned high above in a tree, his vantage point giving him a view inside the high stone walls.

 

In the few minutes that d’Artagnan had clung to the carriage, he’d managed a conversation with one of the occupants. The young woman had subsequently helped the Gascon sneak into the house through a side entrance, which was obviously intended for the “hired help”. Once he’d disappeared from sight, his friends were left waiting and worrying, having no idea of what was supposed to happen next.

 

As he sat alone in his room, d’Artagnan inwardly cursed the fact that he’d recognized the woman in the carriage, having struck up conversations with her on previous occasions when she’d purchased cloth for her dresses from the Bonacieux household. That he’d need to don a dress for his half-formed plan to work hadn’t occurred to him when he’d bolted away from his friends, and it was only once he was inside that his accomplice had explained it would be the only way to accomplish his goal while also remaining undetected within the walls of the great house.

 

At the soft rap on the door, d’Artagnan jumped and then chastised himself at how easily he’d startled. And so began his evening of creative flirtation and excuses, with each man being turned away with the hope that Ortega would eventually find his way to the Gascon’s room. By then, d’Artagnan’s rear was a collage of blossoming bruises from having been pinched multiple times, and the wig that he’d been given by the woman who’d been his makeshift accomplice was beginning to tip forwards, held in place only by the lace scarf that he resolutely kept wrapped around his head.

 

Adopting the same quiet, husky voice that he’d been using the entire evening, d’Artagnan called out his permission for his guest to enter. There stood the slightly flushed features of Rodrigo Ortega, and the Gascon had to work hard to stop the sigh of relief that wanted to escape. Instead, he forced himself to look away demurely, hoping that he’d managed the shy gesture that invited the man into the room. He had his answer moments later when the Spaniard entered, closing the door behind him.

 

Stepping closer, the Count presented himself, “Senorita, your performance was captivating. Never have I ever heard anyone sing so exquisitely, and I can only imagine what beauty lies beneath that veil.” d’Artagnan again dipped his head modestly in response to the compliment, all the while struggling not to roll his eyes at the man’s shameless flattery. Moving closer still, Ortega lowered his voice as he suggested, “I was hoping that you might be in the mood for some company.”

 

For the first time, d’Artagnan briefly met the other man’s gaze before he replied, “Accompany me for a walk outside? I find the evening air exhilarating.” He drew out the last word, adding what he hoped was a seductive tone, nearly grinning widely when the Spaniard extended his arm to the Gascon. As gracefully as he was able, d’Artagnan rose and took the proffered arm, wincing at the painful pinch of the shoes he’d been forced to wear by his insistent accomplice.

 

They moved forward together, Ortega opening the door and allowing his companion to precede him before attempting to guide her to the grand staircase that ended at the front door. d’Artagnan gave a small tug that had the Count looking up in surprise at the strength behind the action as the Musketeer pointed towards a different staircase, explaining, “We’ll have more privacy if we go this way.”

 

Ortega obligingly followed the woman, allowing the lady to lead while admiring the way her hips swayed to and fro in the deep red gown. As they alighted the steps, the Count’s eyes were firmly on his companion’s shapely backside, and he smacked his lips as he imagined the smooth flesh that hid beneath the flowing fabric. At that moment, d’Artagnan turned to wait for Ortega’s arm again and caught the look on the man’s face, swallowing thickly at the realization of what the Count was thinking. Keeping the look of disgust off his face with difficulty, the Gascon threaded his hand through the Spaniard’s arm as they made their way outside, the young man praying that they would have privacy at the side of the house.

 

He tripped as the tight-fitting shoes again constricted his feet and Ortega caught him easily, his grip shifting to both of d’Artagnan’s upper arms. The Count smiled widely as the move brought them face to face and he looked deeply into the lady’s eyes. He was surprised at the firmness of the muscles beneath his hands and commented as he held the Gascon’s gaze, “There is a strength in you that is missing from most women.” With that comment, he began to lean forward and d’Artagnan’s eyes widened in shock as the Spaniard tried to kiss him.

 

With a small squeal, the Musketeer managed to pull a hand free and slap his would-be suitor, Ortega pulling back in alarm at the unexpected reaction as well as the force of the blow that rocked him back on his heels. As he brought a hand to palm his stinging cheek, d’Artagnan looked around and finally spotted the carriage he’d arrived in, tugging at the Count’s arm to bring him along. With a look that he hoped was a mix of charm and seductiveness, he prayed that the Spaniard would believe him to be simply playing hard to get. At the entrance to the carriage, he motioned with one hand as he explained, “I find it’s a far more enjoyable and primal experience if we’re away from the comforts of the bedroom.”

 

The excuse sounded poor even to his own ears and he saw the flash of hesitation on Ortega’s face, but as he placed a hand on the Count’s upper arm, the noble seemed to reach a decision and he helped d’Artagnan up and into the carriage. The Gascon sat one on side, hoping the Spaniard would settle across from him, but the man had other ideas, sitting so closely that their thighs touched. d’Artagnan was officially out of time and out of ideas, and it would become clear to Ortega in the next ten seconds that he’d been tricked.

 

Balling his hand into a fist, the Gascon prepared to strike the other man, believing he had no other choice other than to knock him out and then attempt to get away with his prize safely ensconced in the carriage. As he raised his hand, the vehicle lurched and the Count was thrown towards him, one hand coming to rest on d’Artagnan’s upper chest as he struggled to right himself. The touch was all the motivation the Musketeer needed as he let his fist fly, the Spaniard’s eyes rolling back in his head moments later with the force of the blow. The carriage was still moving and d’Artagnan was trapped beneath the Count’s weight, as the man had collapsed on him when he’d fallen unconscious.

 

For several long seconds, the Gascon struggled to move Ortega’s body off of himself, the swaying of the carriage and the voluminous gown he wore conspiring against him and making the task doubly difficult. With another lurch, the vehicle suddenly stopped and d’Artagnan’s panicked eyes moved to the door, preparing himself for another fight with whomever had discovered them. A moment later, Porthos’ grinning face filled the doorway, Aramis and Athos joining him a second later as the door was pulled open fully.

 

Inside, d’Artagnan sat half on and half off the seat, Ortega’s unconscious form still lying in his lap. The scarf he’d worn had slipped to one side and his wig had followed, leaving him looking strangely disheveled as he breathed with the exertion and stress of what he’d just endured. It took his friends all of three seconds to take in the sight in front of them before their laughter rent the night air, even Athos unable to contain his amusement at his protégé’s predicament. With a frustrated huff, d’Artagnan pushed the Count from his lap, the man thumping bonelessly at his feet as he said, with as much dignity as he could muster, “Someone find me some clothes to wear.”

 

The request brought about another round of laughter, Porthos bent nearly double while tears streamed down Aramis’ face. d’Artagnan groaned as he realized that his chance of retaining any semblance of dignity had evaporated the moment he’d agreed to put on a dress.

 

Several days later, Constance was pleasantly surprised to find a fragrant bouquet of flowers on her kitchen table, accompanied by a note from her favorite Gascon. “Constance, after recent events I find myself compelled to express my appreciation for you as a woman. For all that you are and all that you deal with, you should be waited upon, hand and foot, and cherished for all of your days. With deepest respect, d’Artagnan.”

 

The odd letter brought a momentary frown to Constance’s face, but the flowers were very beautiful. As she placed them into a jug of water, she made a mental note to herself to speak with Athos to find out what had happened to prompt the unusual act.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who gave this story a chance, and I hope you enjoyed my first official attempt at writing a story in which none of our boys got hurt. (I'm hoping that embarrassment and bruised egos don't count!) Thanks also to AZGirl for the prompt, the wonderful story summary and her invaluable beta skills.
> 
> If you haven't yet done so, please check out AZGirl's companion story, "Say Yes to the Dress II", where you can read about Athos' and Porthos' adventures while wearing a dress.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Reminder - "Blue" will be posted by AZGirl tomorrow, and "Red" will be added here the day after.


End file.
